The Barefoot Writer: A Cautionary Tale
or, How I Lost My Sole to Hot Pavement
a true story of shoe-less ambition gone wrong
A relentless sun hung suspended over the small town of Hanover, Ontario one hot June afternoon in 1996, transforming the modest main street into a shimmering mirage. Heat radiated from the pavement in visible waves, distorting the contours of parked cars and storefronts alike, as if the very fabric of the ordinary world had begun to dissolve in the unforgiving light.
In a moment of spontaneous hippie freedom—something that seemed to possess me regularly as a teenager—I slipped off my shoes, tucked them under my arm, and set off barefoot across town. My mission: the church. It was a Friday night and I intended to be at youth group.
Wearing a cream-coloured crop top and the denim overalls I’d tricked my sister into buying me with her back-to-school budget because we could “totally share them,” I was an adorable free spirit and free spirits don't need shoes! I’ve always been a hippie at heart—often declaring that I was born in the wrong decade—and bare feet to the ground feels natural to me. I didn’t consider the consequences.
The walk was several kilometres through the friendly streets of the small town. Amazingly, I felt nothing concerning during the journey. The heat against my soles registered as warmth, not danger. It was too hot for shoes—my feet were grateful for their freedom. I happily continued, oblivious to the damage accumulating with each step.
It wasn’t until I stepped through the glass doors and onto the church carpet that reality struck. Suddenly, without the constant heat beneath me, my feet began to whimper in protest. My soles had turned completely black. Blisters had formed—large, angry bubbles that made walking feel like stepping on oversized bubble wrap. I was nervous they would burst because, surely, that would be the moment the pain of my stupidity would set in.
My friends, bless them, found my predicament hilarious but recognized I shouldn’t be walking. One offered a piggyback ride to their car, then carried me the same way into the emergency room. I don't remember being in any immediate pain, but the sensation of my damaged feet against the ground was alarming enough that I knew I needed help.
The nurse on duty happened to be my friend’s father, which meant there was no sugar-coating my situation. He took one look at my blistered, blackened feet and called me exactly what I was: “a dummy.” But there was affection in his diagnosis, and he immediately set about applying salve and wrapping my feet in white gauze.
I attended youth group that night with feet fully bandaged, looking like I was wearing gauze slippers. I don't remember the recovery time, but I do know that I've never walked barefoot on asphalt since that day. I still cringe whenever I see someone else doing it.
This photo of me and my very supportive friend, Heidi, was taken that night. In my mind, I remembered the picture showing my whole gauzed-up foot, but as you can see, it just looks like I’m wearing socks. But trust me—that’s a bandaged foot, and walking on it was one of the weirdest sensations!
The first time I submitted a manuscript to a publisher was eerily similar to that time I walked barefoot across town in the summer heat. In both cases, I was too wrapped up in the romantic notion of the moment to consider proper protection. I didn’t feel the damage until it was done, and I needed someone to carry me to recovery while calling me—with complete accuracy—a dummy.
Writers know this impulsive feeling well. We get an idea that feels so right, so natural, that we dive in without preparation. Who needs outlines? Who needs to research the market? The story is calling, and like my bare feet to the hot pavement, we make contact without considering consequences.
This is precisely how writing that first draft feels. We type furiously, convinced of our brilliance. The words flow, characters develop, and the plot thickens. Everything seems to be going swimmingly—until we reach our destination. Just as writers often don’t recognize fundamental flaws in their work until they’ve reached “The End” or handed their manuscript to a first reader. That moment when external perspective enters the picture is when we finally see the damage our enthusiastic ignorance has caused.
Sometimes our writing needs rescuing—a friend who recognizes our work is in trouble but still values it enough to help us get to the help we need. And in the publishing world, that’s when we need the editor who can look at our scorched mess of a manuscript and tell us honestly what we’ve done wrong, but who will still help us fix it. The best editors don’t hold back the truth, especially when they know you can take it, but they also provide the treatment needed to heal.
After our first brutal encounter with criticism or rejection, we writers learn. We develop thicker skin. We prepare better next time. We respect the process and recognize that proper preparation isn’t about limiting our creativity—it’s about protecting it from unnecessary damage.
Like my barefoot journey through Hanover, writing is about navigating the distance between where we are and where we want to be. The path will burn us sometimes. We’ll develop blisters. We’ll need rescuing.
But if we’re lucky, we’ll have friends to carry us when we can’t walk, honest voices to call us dummies when we deserve it, and the wisdom to wear proper protection the next time around.
So, where are you? Have you been exploring the wild west of the publishing industry and found yourself with blackened, blistered feet? I’ve got the salve and bandages—at least for the burns I’ve experienced myself—and I’d be happy to help you heal.
If you’re ready to ask for a little help getting your manuscript from raw and blistered to polished and protected, let’s talk. I can help you avoid those hot sidewalks altogether, or at least make sure you’re wearing the right shoes for the journey.
After all, isn’t that what being a writer is all about? Turning our blisters into stories that others can learn from, laugh at, and relate to? I’d say so—but then again, I’m the dummy who walked barefoot across town on the hottest day of the year, so what do I know?
Speaking of fire and survival, I’d love for you to join me tomorrow at the launch party for my new novel, When the Trees All Burned. Unlike my teenage self walking barefoot across hot pavement, you won’t need emergency care afterward—just prepare for a warm welcome, good conversation, and a story about what happens when the whole world feels the heat. I promise your feet will thank you for coming, and so will I.
